Risk Everything
by lone-star-woman
Summary: No Plot. Just Jack throwing knives at Ianto as foreplay.


Got the idea while listening to "Asylum"

**Warning:** This may go without saying, but DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

**Disclaimer: **I'm playing with RTD's broken and discarded toys for my own pleasure (and hopefully for the pleasure of others). No profit is being made.

Special thanks to temporal_witch for reading this over first.

* * *

The sound of the blade grinding against the stone caused Ianto to lose his train of thought. He didn't dare turn around to see Jack standing in the doorway of his office. He didn't dare look at Jack's face, which he imagined to be full of amusement. He just stared ahead at nothing in particular and listened to the sharp sound of steel against stone. The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. His bottom lip trembled. He salivated like a damn dog. However, he would not allow Jack to see him this way because he couldn't bear to see his lover laugh. He'd only want to wipe the stupid grin off of Jack's face with his tongue, but he couldn't do that now with Gwen sitting at her station. Luckily for Ianto, she was engrossed in her police report and took no notice of the game the two men were playing.

He listened to Jack blow the dust from the stone, the sound causing him to shudder. Then, he heard footsteps as Jack mercifully went back into his office. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"Ianto?" Gwen said. "Could you come here and proofread this for me, see if I've missed anything?"

Ianto slid back into his professional demeanor as he straightened his tie and stood up from his chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack practicing his grip on the knife handle, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hand. It took every ounce of Ianto's concentration not to stumble, but Ianto would not give Jack the satisfaction of seeing him flustered.

~~o0o~~

The reports were done. The inmates were fed. The second-in-command had gone home, leaving the two men to their own devices.

They carried the wooden target -- which was dark indigo, almost black, and speckled with gold stars -- to the center of the shooting range. Ianto opened the leather bag holding the knives and arranged them on the table as carefully as he would lay out Owen's surgical tools. Jack checked the contents of the first aid kit. Their eyes met. Jack opened his mouth, one eyebrow raised. Ianto pressed his lips together and gave the worried man a smile of tacit agreement.

Jack moved around the table so that he was behind Ianto. Slowly, he slid the jacket off of his assistant's body and draped it carefully on the table. A gentle squeeze on the arm was Ianto's cue to turn around so that they stood facing each other. Ianto laid his hands flat on the table behind him as Jack undid the Windsor knot of his tie and pulled the silk away from Ianto's neck. Their mouths were only a hairsbreadth apart, but their lips did not touch no matter how badly both of them wanted to steal a kiss. The night was about both of them being utterly in control.

Jack peeled off Ianto's shirt next. He paused to run his fingers over the scars on Ianto's chest before folding the article of clothing and placing it in on the table. The shoes and socks came off next, and Ianto used those couple of minutes to strengthen his resolve because he'd need it when Jack removed his trousers. He bit his lip, but he couldn't stop himself from whimpering when those fingers ghosted over his crotch as the zipper went down. Jack's hands skimming over his legs at a snail's pace didn't help the matter either, but Ianto concentrated on the gleaming set of knives and held on. He must not give in. Not yet.

When he had removed almost every item of clothing except Ianto's underwear, Jack led Ianto to the target and posed the young man against the boards -- feet slightly apart, arms to the side, palms flat against the wood. It often occurred to Ianto that he should get a shiny outfit more appropriate for the Big Top. Of course, Jack would probably opt for a pair of bright red, teeny, tiny shorts and gold boots. Perhaps, he'd even get a cape.

Once Ianto joked that a blindfold and a cigarette might do. That time, Jack picked up his knives and left him standing at the target. The young man never made that mistake again.

Jack walked back to the table and picked up the first knife. He practiced a couple of swings, but didn't let go of the weapon. Instead he raised an eyebrow. It was an unspoken question: _Are you ready?_ Or perhaps: _Are you sure you want to do this?_

Ianto knew how to respond. Without a sound, he held eye contact for ten counts. Neither of them blinked while an awesome fear clutched Ianto in its vice-like grip, squeezing the life out of him, but he could not display such a powerful emotion. If he doubted Jack, Jack would doubt himself. And then what would happen when the knife left his hand?

It would be all right. Ianto trusted Jack. Jack was an old pro. Jack would not hurt him. Jack would not fail.

Ianto inhaled sharply as the knife landed a few inches from his head. The first throw was always the same -- that overwhelming, white-knuckle panic followed by euphoric relief. The rush often left him dizzy, not unlike the sort of lightheadedness one got from the first drag from a cigarette. Or perhaps it was like a first kiss. He felt as though his knees might buckle. He could easily imagine himself sliding down the target into the hard floor, but he willed himself to remain standing. Jack had more knives to throw. With a deep breath, Ianto centered himself once more.

Their eyes met again. Every muscle in Ianto's body tensed as he waited.

Jack threw a second knife, which found a resting place left of Ianto's shoulder, and the clutter in Ianto's mind was blown away by the speed of the deadly instrument barreling towards his body. He could feel the goose bumps rise on his arm. The tips of his fingers began to tingle. He closed his eyes, and his head spun 'round and 'round. He felt so alive.

Standing at the ready with the next knife in his hand, Jack stared at his target, his gaze deep and penetrating, but not threatening, never threatening. He was intensely focused as if there was no rift, no Weevils, no Torchwood. Not an easy feat for a man who had the burden of protecting all of mankind weighing on his shoulders, who had an entourage of ghosts to remind him of his failures and shortcomings.

Ianto willingly burned under that stare if it meant that for just an evening, he was the only other being in Jack's universe.

Following the next throw, the blood flowed like lava across his chest and spread to his neck and down to his groin. He puffed out his cheeks, letting the air escape from his lungs, slowly, and floated from exhilaration to desire.

Jack picked up three more knives and threw them in rapid succession. All Ianto could think about was Jack thrusting into his body hard and deep. He could already smell Jack's sweat as it dripped on his body. He shuddered to think of the sweet obscenities Jack would whisper into his ear.

Feeling loose and confident, Jack pressed the knife against his wicked, wicked grin, the one that promised great pleasure, and then, swung his arm at the target.

When the knife pierced the wood, Ianto moaned. His sexual energy coiled itself in his hips, tightening with each breath, waiting to be released. He ached to be touched, though he stayed rooted to his spot, holding onto his yearning, relishing each second of its dark embrace.

Jack held on the next knife. He twirled it in his hand by the handle. He balanced it on his palm, appreciating its curved form. He dragged the blade against his fingertip, feeling the sharpness of its edge, essentially toying with his lover. Then, he turned to Ianto and raised an eyebrow. Ianto nodded eagerly, practically begging for more.

In one graceful motion, Jack released the knife from his hand, and it stung Ianto's shoulder as it nicked the skin. For a few seconds, there was panic in Jack's eyes; he hadn't intended to cut things so close. So Ianto stepped forward. All he had was a small cut.

But the spell was broken, and Ianto walked to the table and leaned on its edge once again while Jack held onto his arm and examined the wound. Really it was nothing. Ianto had had worse out on the field, but Jack was clearly shaken up by his gaffe. His jaw was clenched, and the vein in his neck popped out. His body was stiff and awkward as he treated the cut with antibiotic cream and a plaster.

"One of these days," Jack said. "I'm going to let my guard down. One of these days…"

Their eyes met again. Neither of them blinked.

Ianto pressed his lips together and smiled as if to say, "Not today." Though he understood that to love Jack was to risk everything, and the odds were that sooner or later he was going to lose.

That smile was all Jack needed to seize Ianto and plunge his tongue into the other man's mouth, kissing him with all of the intensity and passion he had withheld for the length of the evening. Ianto held on, making the most of his gamble.

And perhaps he was deluding himself, but he liked to believe that he each night he won just a little bit more of Jack's heart.


End file.
